


Gentle Hands and Kind Words

by TheClicheInLife



Series: Unlucky Number Six [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7162682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheClicheInLife/pseuds/TheClicheInLife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was never a woman of “I love you”s, of sweet words or promises she couldn’t keep; the Wateland is too harsh, too cruel for such sweet things – it’s how she stayed alive when softer people wilted or were buffeted away by the sand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentle Hands and Kind Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first piece of a character study of the Courier from New Vegas, I'm actually REALLY pleased with how it turned out to be honest. Let me know what you think, I'll hopefully have more writing up soon.

She was never a woman of “I love you”s, of sweet words or promises she couldn’t keep; the Wateland is too harsh, too cruel for such sweet things – it’s how she stayed alive when softer people wilted or were buffeted away by the sand. So when gentle hands mapped her skin, when sweet words reached her ear, her only thought of their owner was how much of a fool they were, with their gentle hands and kind words sure to be the death of them in this Wasteland where your weaknesses were exploited until you no longer had value. And yet, those hands and words always seemed to follow her, haunt her, and no matter how often she rages against it, how hard she pushes them away, she always ends up in another’s arms.

It was an older brother first, she thinks, kind words whispered as he held her close as the Radstorms roared overhead, “morenita” he called her as she curled up closer as the storm rolled in. Mama and Papa were always in the fields of their homestead tending the crop or the Brahmin or fixing the patchwork irrigation that seemed older than the Great War itself. Her brother was always there though, humming along with the radio as he fixes the homestead – repairing the turrets and generators he built with his own hands, hands gentle enough to fix Maria, her painted doll, and hold her through the storms that seemed never ending to a girl of five. When Mama found out she was going to have another baby, her brother became her family’s first “Mensajero”, it was better money and Marisol was old enough now to watch the house while he was gone. She cried the entire week before he left, the thought of losing the voice that sang her to sleep while gently rocking her was enough to bring her to tears. Her final memory of him was that warm, gentle hand on her cheek as he kissed her forehead, “te amo, morenita. Promite que te veo pronto.” He lied. His warm hand and kind words were stolen by the Mojave forever. Instead of her brother back, she received a screaming little sister and 250 caps from the Mojave Express for her family’s loss.

The next time, it was when she donned the title of “Mensajero” herself, sixteen and wanting freedom from the home that seemed to suffocate her every time she thought of him. She was still soft then, the Wasteland hadn’t sharpened her edges yet and living in the legacy of her brother, with his soft hands and kind words seemed an appropriate devotion. This time, it was a girl – a fellow courier who shone as brightly as the sun, gentle hands braided her hair as lips pressed gentle kisses onto her shoulder and back. The girl sang lullabies into her ear as she held her close on the twin sized mattress they shared in Primm, she called the girl “Querida” and couldn’t help but kiss her when the word was met with confusion. The girl with gentle hands and kind words would leave her letters tucked under their shared mattress, always promising a safe return and other sweet words. One day, she didn’t, intercepted by Legion soldiers they told her. This time, she received 500 caps, they told her the girl didn’t have a family and that she deserved it for her loss. The letters were tucked into her rags, always close to her heart.

She found herself deep in the NCR the third time it happened – on a job for the Mojave express, delivering letters from the soldiers recently stationed at Hoover Dam back to their families. She was sharper now – the sands of the Mojave buffed away at what the heat of the desert had hardened. At first, soft hands playing with her fingers as sweet words were whispered in her ear were easy enough to brush away. She had enough of the Mojave in her now to call him a fool. He worked on a large farm hold, his brother a ranking NCR officer so the letters were more frequent than most, he was always sending money home to his family. The first time he kissed her, she let it happen, callused hands still gentle on her sun touched skin; her own hands gentle as she held him, afraid that the Mojave inside of her would break another pair of gentle hands that held her. She remained there in those gentle arms for three years, always returning to him even when her travels took her deep into the Mojave. She was in his arms one night, his lips pressed to the crown of her head as she whispered those forbidden words, “te amo,” and hard and sharp as she was, she meant every syllable. As soon as they were uttered, those gentle hands and kind lips were on her body as she affirmed he loved her too, kind lips whispering, “te amo,” in return. She was away on a job when a sudden sickness spread through the southern holdfasts of the NCR, she returned to find those kind lips pale and dry, those gentle hands shaking. He left her with parting words, promises of a home and children unfulfilled, “te amo mis sol y estrellas, nuncas me olvides por favor. Pero, mas importante nuncas olvides a amar.” With shaking hands, her brought her own hands to his lips and pressed one final kiss to the inside of her wrists.

The final time, it was in the arms of the man that killed her. She was the Mojave now, harder than steel and sharper than the razor she carried in her boot. His lips were sweeter than any she had ever met before; spinning stories and giving kisses that she couldn’t believe were real. His hands always yielded to her body, knowing her as only those with gentle hands had before. They weren’t the type for “I love you”s but, what they were was so much more, it was the promise of an entire city of a life they would spend together trying to keep the world around them from falling apart, and perhaps he had just enough of the Mojave in him that he wouldn’t fade away like those with gentle hands and kind lips had before him. With her head on his bare chest, eyes looking out at the New Vegas Skyline, she isn’t sure that she could ever ask for more.


End file.
